


Ache

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alt Meet, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Drug Use, Fateful Encounter, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Roulette, Kissing, Love at First Sight, M/M, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, References to Suicide, Romantic John Watson, Romantic Tension, Sexual Tension, Smitten John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-05 20:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15178433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: John Watson is a military veteran, recently returned from Afghanistan, who feels as though his life has lost all meaning. Sherlock Holmes is a struggling drug addict, living on the streets of London, whose dreams were never fully realised due to his habit.Both of them are just trying to find a way to dull the ache.When they meet on the evening of January 29th, it's decidedly not by chance. John feels an indescribable urge to take care of this mysterious, beautiful man, so he invites him to stay at his place.It’s all a bit strange, and yet it feels absolutely natural—as though saving Sherlock is what John is meant to do.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unicornpoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Боль (Ache)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16334162) by [PulpFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PulpFiction/pseuds/PulpFiction)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The man is warm, even in the cold of the rain; soft, although he’s mostly bones. He smells good, indescribably so, even though John’s quite sure he’s got no reason to._
> 
>  
> 
> _There is silence, except for the rain pouring down onto them, and the sound of their breathing, interspersed. The man’s chest rises and falls, ribs pressing into John’s, and John can feel the thrumming of his own skin as goosebumps begin to form._

_Friday, January 29th, 2010._

Two months ago, John Watson’s life had held meaning.

But all that awaits him now is a tiny bedsit offering little more than four walls, the ghosts of Afghanistan, and a handgun in the top drawer of his desk.

He sits in a darkened pub with Mike Stamford, whom he’d run into at Regent’s Park earlier that day. Mike is gregarious and enthusiastic, chuckling in short puffs of air, reminiscing about their time at Bart’s between sips of beer.

John laughs along, but his laughs are vacant—he isn’t connected to the conversation at all. He likes Mike; and he knows that he should enjoy seeing an old schoolmate, but he finds himself, more often than not, tuning out.

It feels as though there's something John’s missing.

Not really new. Since he’d returned from Afghanistan, his desire for purpose and adventure had become somewhat customary, and the need had gone largely unfulfilled.

But tonight, the feeling is different. There’s something else—something that he’s supposed to be partaking in, something he's meant to do.

Something big.

As John finishes his pint, he gets up, thanking Mike, heads out the door to walk home, and tries to ignore the feeling.

***

It’s a cold, rainy night in London, but that doesn’t matter to Sherlock Holmes.

He tosses the used syringes onto the ground and lies back, pulling a soaked, dirty blanket over his head. It reeks of mildew, and his eyes burn from the rain.

That doesn’t matter, either.

The sensation of the medicine courses through his veins; a euphoric swell that covers the dull ache and fills the empty hole in his sternum.

All that matters, right now, is that the ache has subsided for a little while.

***

Rain batters down onto John as he treads through the darkened streets. Clouds cover the sky like a thick blanket; freezing raindrops form icy puddles on the pavement. He tries to veer over them, but it’s difficult to do while using a cane.

He curses under his breath for forgetting to pack his _fucking umbrella._

And that’s when he hears it.

He pauses briefly, senses piqued: a low, muffled groan.

He leans onto his good leg to move forward, but before he can take a full step, he hears it again—louder.

John stares at the entrance of a nearby alleyway. A dim yellow light glows from it, casting a ghostly veil onto the darkened, empty building.

He knows he should walk away.

Knows it’s a terrible idea to venture into a dark alley late at night for the sole purpose of exploring a mysterious sound.

But the familiar thrill of impending danger propels him immediately forward.

He treads into the alleyway without a second thought—it’s empty, and barren, and he can’t tell where it ends. He approaches a heap of ratty blankets littered with syringes. Morphine and cocaine, he suspects; a potentially deadly mixture.

John kneels over the blankets, his cane slipping out of his hand and toppling to the ground with a clatter. He ignores it; pulls back the blankets, and through the blurriness of the rain, he can see, behind them, a body.

Male. Caucasian, early thirties. He looks oddly familiar, though John is positive it’s his very first time seeing him.

Rain pours down from a mass of black, matted hair, trickling down pale skin, collecting below the collar of a dark wool coat.

John sets his hand beneath the damp collar, feeling the man’s pulse with his first and second fingers. Weak, irregular, but still there.

John slides his palm onto the rain-slickened skin of the man’s face, hovering over the man’s deeply-curved cheekbones. He takes the man's temperature—low, but not fatally low—as raindrops pour down into the dips and columns of the man's long neck.

The man’s lips tremble; dry and chapped, and another groan escapes them. His eyes begin to flutter open, slowly, and John leans over him, observing.

The man's gaze is foggy, glazed over for several seconds, but slowly, it comes into focus. His eyes are a bright, pale colour that John cannot define.

The first thing the man focuses on is John, which isn’t surprising in the least, but John is hit with the intense sensation that the man actually _sees_ him.

Lifting his head, brow crinkling with confusion, the man squints his crystalline eyes at John. “Am I dead?” he asks, and John lets out a breathy laugh.

“No," John says. "Don't think it rains like this in Hell.”

"Bugger," the man says as a smile settles onto his lips. He straightens his spine, grinning impishly at John. “Kidding, of course. I'm a professional. If I truly wanted to be dead, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

John gets the keen inclination that there’s something the man isn’t saying, but he reminds himself that they are, in fact, complete and total strangers.

“How are you feeling?” John asks, surprised by the depth of his regard for this man's well-being.

"High.” The man speaks casually as his eyes scan their surroundings, taking them in as if he hadn’t noticed them before. "Which is to say, utterly fantastic," he adds, gaze venturing back towards John.

John stares at him, slack-jawed.

This man is very peculiar.

But even in the dull light of the alleyway, with his red-rimmed eyes, the pale pallor of his worn skin, he glows, and John can't help but think that the man is oddly striking.

“Anyway," the man says politely as he clears his throat. “Thank you for your concern, Doctor, but you can go.”

“No.” John is again alarmed at his own protectiveness towards the man. “You’ve taken a potentially dangerous combination of morphine and cocaine, and—” He pauses. “I never told you that I was a doctor.”

The man dusts off the sleeves of his coat and pulls himself up from the ground to stand. “You’re right,” he says obstinately. “But it’s quite obvious that you are.”

The man wobbles, legs unsteady. John gets up as quickly as he can, reaching outwards to break his fall. “Careful,” John warns, but it’s too late—and the lanky, awkward man stumbles into a heap in John’s arms.

Almost immediately, he leans further into John for support, bringing his own arms up to John’s sides, and John’s arms wrap involuntarily around the man’s thin waist.

John knows it should feel odd to be holding a complete stranger.

It doesn’t feel odd at all.

The man is warm, even in the cold of the rain; soft, although he’s mostly bones. He smells good, indescribably so, even though John’s quite sure he’s got no reason to.

There is silence, except for the rain pouring down onto them, and the sound of their breathing, interspersed. The man’s chest rises and falls, ribs pressing into John’s, and John can feel the thrumming of his own skin as goosebumps begin to form.

“We should get you home,” John says softly, just above the hollow of the man’s collarbone.

“I _am_ home.” The man pulls away from John, but doesn’t untangle himself completely.

John’s hands remain resting lightly on the sides of his waist; the man’s fingers wrap delicately around the top of John’s forearms.

John gazes back at him, unblinking. “You mean to say—you live in this building?”

“No,” the man says. _“Here_. The streets and alleyways of London are my home.”

“Oh.” Silence again.

And then, unexpectedly, the man lowers his eyes from John’s face; downwards, with a deep, deep focus. First, to John's neck, then to his shoulders, then to his arms. They venture over John’s chest, lingering a bit, to his stomach, his legs, his feet.

John can feel his neck begin to warm with something unbidden, and he opens his mouth to scold the man for the audacious perusal of his body. “Oi! What are you—”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man says unaffectedly, his eyes snapping back to John’s.

“Sorry?” John says weakly. That’s not what he’d expected at all.

“Which is it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” As if he’s merely asking for the time.

John’s face feels warmer still, heart thudding, and he mutters: “Afghanistan.”

“A military veteran, stopping to help random drug addicts on the street at night?" The man's expression flickers with amusement. "Am I to presume you’re some sort of... anti-drug vigilante?”

“No.” John chuckles. “I suppose I’m just bored.”

The corners of the man’s mouth tug upwards, and his eyes flicker with something else: familiarity, appreciation, understanding.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he says, his arms finally falling to his sides.

John removes his grip from around the man’s waist. “Doctor John Watson."

“Right.” Sherlock clears his throat abruptly. “Well, John. As I said, you can go now. I'll be fine.”

John crosses his arms over his chest and leans forward slightly, his eyebrows creeping upwards. “You need medical attention, Mister Holmes.”

“Sherlock,” the man corrects him. "Call me Sherlock. And false. I don’t need _anything_ at the moment.”

“ _Sherlock.”_ The unfamiliar name feels wholly natural on the tip of John’s tongue. “Sherlock. Are you always so bloody stubborn?”

“Yes,” Sherlock retorts, steadying his gaze. “And John, are _you_ always so hideously overbearing?”

John peers back at him, and he finds himself burning with an indescribable heat of annoyance. “Idiot," he mumbles. "I’m only trying to help you.”

Sherlock’s expression softens at his words. “Help me? How are you planning to help me?”

John nods back towards the street. “My place is just a ten minute cab ride away. If you’re going to refuse medical attention, you should at least get out of the cold. Let me get you to a dry place where I can monitor you a bit. You can get some rest, and I’ll provide you with some food and water.”

Sherlock looks back at John silently, with a veiled wonderment that causes John to question whether he’d actually heard of any of those things before.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John urges. “Let’s go.”

And Sherlock doesn’t argue as John slides his arms around his waist, leaning into his body as they walk out of the alleyway to hail a cab.

As they walk together, John knows he should be feeling something like panic, or regret. He knows he should be admonishing his own stupidity for inviting a stranger into his home. But all he can think about is how _not normal_ this all is, and how indescribably _amazing_ that makes him feel.

And John doesn’t think about his cane, laying on the ground behind them, all but forgotten underneath the thick, heavy drops of January rain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A thrill stirs in John's chest, and he wonders, once more, what the hell he’s doing. There’s a beautiful drug addict lying in his bed, an intriguing man who also happens to be some brand of genius, and John can’t tear his eyes away for a single moment._
> 
> _He takes a deep breath and exhales, realising it still doesn’t feel unusual at all._

John’s flat buzzes with the sound of cheap fluorescent lighting; the scent of stale cigarettes is barely masked by yellowing paint on the walls. The bed is on one end of the small room; a tiny kitchenette on the other. There's only one window, offering the spectacular view of grey brick and questionably-frayed electrical wires.

There is barely enough room for one person there, and yet, a seemingly infinite amount of space for all of John’s thoughts and ruminations.

And though his place is small, and it's suffocating, John notices that when Sherlock enters, it feels brighter and more filled with oxygen.

John thinks he's definitely going mad.

Sherlock scans the tiny space—not attempting to hide his look of obvious distaste. John watches, waiting to see if he’s going to have the impertinence say something ill-mannered. Because although he’s currently living in an alleyway, it seems like something he’d probably do.

John watches Sherlock, and watches Sherlock, and... John is entirely too distracted.

“I’ll get you something to change into,” he blurts, nodding towards Sherlock’s wet, ruined clothes.

Sherlock huffs, lowering his eyes again pointedly over John’s compact body.

“Shut up,” John says, because he knows exactly what the taller man is thinking.

Sherlock presses his lips together stubbornly, lowering his head to hide a smile, and John turns to rummage through his tiny wardrobe.

He probably owns less than six outfits, but his options are even slimmer considering he hasn't done laundry in an age. The only thing that might fit Sherlock, John realises, is his cotton bathrobe, so he pulls it down from its hanger.

“Here,” John says, holding it out towards Sherlock, and he very deliberately does not meet Sherlock's eyes. “You can change in the bathroom.”

When Sherlock doesn’t move to take the robe for several moments, John finally lets his eyes drift upwards to look back at him.

Sherlock’s skin is pale and smooth, his black curls matted against his head; his lips are heart-shaped and dry—probably from dehydration. His eyes are rimmed with red, sunken back in dark circles; a deeply stark contrast to the clear, bright shade of his irises.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John says, more urgently. “Here. Go change.”

Sherlock blinks and grunts something that John is sure he considers an acknowledgement of appreciation. He takes the robe, turning on his heels to walk to the tiny bathroom.

John watches him for a brief moment as he walks away. He is tall, and lanky, and his body seems almost disproportionate, with his large hands and a neck that extends for miles. But the way he moves is inarguably graceful and elegant.

John heads to the kitchenette and takes a tray from the cupboard to set it on the counter. He fills a large pitcher with water, takes a towel from the wall and soaks it. He opens the refrigerator—it’s mostly barren. He takes an apple from his counter that hasn’t gone brown, slices it up, and wonders what the hell he’s doing.

A drug addict that he’d found, high in an alleyway, less than two hours before, is currently changing in his bathroom.

 _“Sherlock Holmes,”_ John whispers under his breath. The name is fitting for a man like him: strange, but equally beautiful.  

“Hmm?” Sherlock asks, rattling John from his thoughts, and John jumps a bit, the towel he’s holding falling onto the rim of the sink.

“Sorry.” Sherlock's voice is smooth and deep, containing a hint of amusement. “Didn’t mean to startle you, John."

John turns to look at him with a chiding expression, but the expression falls away when he sees Sherlock looking back at him, smiling. Wearing John’s cotton bathrobe, which doesn’t fit him at all, but it doesn’t fit him at all _surprisingly well._

“Go lie down,” John says. His head is light; his limbs are weak. “I’ll bring you some water and some food.”

Sherlock frowns. “Lie down where?”

John swallows and smiles amicably. “There’s really only one option: the bed.”

“You’re offering me your bed?”

“Yeah. You need it right now. More than I do.”

Sherlock squirms uncomfortably, as though he wants to say more, but he settles for holding his damp clothes out towards John. “Where shall I put these, then?”

“You should probably just toss them into the rubbish bin.”

“Ah. So anywhere in this tiny, darkened pit will suffice.”

John rolls his eyes and grins. “Just leave them on the table.” He gestures with his chin. “We can worry about laundering them later.”

Sherlock still doesn’t move; he just stands there, staring back, as if he's trying to come up with an intricate plan to move the full two metres to John's bed.

"John," he says into the silence at last, his voice almost small, hesitant.  

“Yeah, Sherlock?” John's own breaths are now coming very quickly.

“Why did you decide to help me?”

“Because I’m a doctor, and that’s what doctors do.”

“I’ve known a great deal of doctors, John, and none of them have done this.”

John sighs. “I can’t exactly explain,” he admits, and he's speaking the absolute truth. “It might sound ridiculous, but I suppose it just felt right. Like helping you is something I'm meant to do."

“Yes,” Sherlock says plainly. “You’re right, John. That does sound ridiculous indeed.”

“Yeah." John smiles. "This might actually be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John exhales a burst of laughter. “Speaking of which,” he says, “how on Earth could you have known? About Afghanistan, and about me being a doctor?”

So many unanswered questions, so many things John is dying to know about this intriguing man.

Sherlock sighs dramatically, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the universe. “I didn’t know,” he says. “I _saw_.”

“Saw?” John is hooked. “How exactly did you see?"

“Well, the doctor part was painstakingly obvious.”

“Yeah? Go on, then.”

Sherlock’s bright eyes penetrate John, and it’s at once terrifying and exhilarating, and John doesn't want to miss a single second of what's about to occur.

“You knew which drugs I had taken based on the used syringes lying next to me. Not common knowledge, unless you’re a drug addict yourself. But that’s somewhat unlikely, given your recent history of military service."

John freezes, unblinking, mouth agape. “Hang on. You knew I was in the military, because...?”

“Your haircut. The way you hold yourself. Says military.”

John glances into the mirror on the wall across the room. “Lucky guess, then.”

Sherlock inhales sharply, almost a gasp, or a laugh; John really can’t tell. “You approached an unfamiliar body in a dark alleyway, presumably because you thought I might be in danger. You didn’t run away, and you didn’t call emergency services immediately like many people would have done. You knew that I wasn’t in danger of dying, and felt you could handle it on your own. So: Doctor.”

Something in John’s chest expands, stirs. He’s growing more excited, more breathless with every word rolling off of Sherlock’s tongue.

“You were walking around London in late January with no umbrella—quite uncharacteristic of a Londoner. But you speak with a London accent, which implies that you’re a local.”

Sherlock glances over to the corner of the room at John's umbrella, propped against the door. “It's likely that you recently returned from a long stay in an area with a dry climate, and you’d simply gotten out of the habit of packing an umbrella.”

Sherlock's words become more urgent and passionate as he continues, picking up tempo. “And then there’s the cane.” 

“The cane?” John asks. “What about it?” 

Sherlock glances at John’s leg, and John feels a sharp pain coursing through it. “It obviously belongs to you, based on the proportions and the spot worn down by your thumb. You had it with you, even though you forgot to pack an umbrella. So you _need_ it, but your limp is psychosomatic.”

John lifts an eyebrow. “You think my limp is psychosomatic?”

“Yes, of course it is."

”Why?”

Sherlock shifts a bit, his ears becoming tinged with pink, but his confidence doesn't waver. “When I fell in the alleyway, you caught me, and you were able to hold my body up, steady as a rock, for several moments.”

John’s heart beats even faster. His ears are ringing, and the pain in his leg is pulsing.

“Not to mention,” Sherlock adds, with a tiny smile—arrogant at first, but quickly turning into something more akin to pride. “...the _very_ telling fact that you left it on the ground behind us when we walked out of the alleyway.”

John’s chest tightens. He suddenly forgets all about the pain in his leg, and he suddenly forgets how to breathe.

“Your limp is psychosomatic," Sherlock says, "which implies that the circumstances behind it were traumatic. Wounded in action, then, hm?” Sherlock lifts an eyebrow at John provocatively, because at this point, he’s only showing off.

“Military. Wounded in action. Returned recently from somewhere abroad with a dry climate. So: Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock slides his tongue over the roof of his mouth, clicking on the harsh "k" sound to signify his conclusion.

John releases a breath he’d been holding in his lungs for much longer than he’d realised.

He’s fascinated. Enthralled. His heart is in his ears, but he’s only able to utter a single word: “Oh.”

What he means is: “I think I might love you.”

“So you see, John,” Sherlock says, lips quirking, and John tries not to be obvious when his eyes flicker briefly onto them. “Not exactly a lucky guess.”

“That—” John’s voice is raspy. He swallows his words and tries again. “God, that was amazing.”

“For a drug addict, you mean.”

“No,” John says enthusiastically. “That was...absolutely brilliant. For _anyone.”_

John can barely contain the look of awe on his face. And he’s sure Sherlock notices, because the blush on his ears is spreading to his face and neck.

“Do you really think so?” he asks softly.

“Yes, Sherlock, I really, really think so.”

“Hm.” Sherlock's eyes are filled with a melancholic fascination. “Nobody’s ever told me that before.”  

"Well," John says. "Then perhaps you’ve just been spending your time with the wrong kinds of people.”

The smile that overtakes Sherlock's face seems wholly uninhibited, and it causes something in John’s stomach to flutter.

He's lovely. Even in the harsh light of John's flat.

“John,” Sherlock says again, lowering his head a bit, and John finds that every time Sherlock says his name, his own skin seems to vibrate.

“John, I should warn you that inviting me into your home could turn out to be… somewhat more than a minor inconvenience for you."

“Yeah,” John says. “Maybe. But it’s okay. I already kind of know what I’m getting into.”

“So, you’re trained in dealing with addicts?”

“Well, in a way. My sister is one, too.”

“Oh. So you are aware that, in the next few hours, I’m going to try to run away and get myself some more.”

“Yes, I'm aware."

“And you’re going to let that happen?”

“No, I'm not."

“I don’t see how you’re going to stop me.”

“I can’t technically _make_ you do anything,” John admits. “But I _can_ call the police and have them take you to jail for illegal possession of a prescription drug.”

Sherlock scoffs. “The police are idiots.”

“Perhaps,” John says. “But why chance it? Unless you’d prefer to be on the floor of a jail cell than in a dry, warm bed.”

“No.” Sherlock lifts his eyebrow and smiles at John once more, and there's an unmistakable fondness behind it. “I think would prefer to be here, under a doctor’s care.”

His grin turns into something coy before he turns to walk to the bed, and John watches him, enraptured.

Sherlock walks past the table, drops his wet clothing onto it, and continues to the bed. He pulls back the covers and climbs beneath them, lying down on his back. He brings his hands up to weave them together beneath his chin, and God, John thinks. He looks divine when he does that.

John moves swiftly towards the bed, tray in hand, and sits down on the floor beside him.

“You were very trusting in inviting me to your place,” Sherlock says, staring up at the ceiling. “For all you know, I could be a very dangerous person.”

John laughs as he picks up a glass of water from the tray. “For all you know, Sherlock, I could be dangerous, too.”

“Oh, I rather expect that you are, John.” Sherlock turns to his side, resting his head on his hand. “Which is exactly why I feel so safe in your care.”

A thrill stirs in John's chest, and he wonders, once more, what the hell he’s doing. There’s a beautiful drug addict lying in his bed, an intriguing man who also happens to be some brand of genius, and John can’t tear his eyes away for a single moment.

He takes a deep breath and exhales, realising it still doesn’t feel unusual at all.

He holds the glass of water out towards Sherlock. “Drink.” A simple command.

Sherlock nods, the damp curls hanging from the crown of his head bouncing ever so slightly. And as he takes the glass from John, their hands brush together lightly, and John can feel a spark of electricity shooting through his body.

Sherlock brings the glass to his lips and drinks, and drinks, and drinks, as if he’s never had anything to drink in his entire life.

“More?” John asks, amused, as Sherlock plunks the glass back onto the tray.

“No.”

“Alright, then. Eat.”

“Not hungry.”

“Eat anyway.”

“No.”

“Yes. Doctor’s orders.”

John lifts the plate of fruit off of the tray and pushes it towards Sherlock. Sherlock rolls his eyes and pushes it away. John moves the plate back with a swift gesture, jostling it back and forth beneath Sherlock’s chin.

 _“Stop,”_ Sherlock says, pretending to be irritated, but it’s clear that he's not.

“ _Eat.”_

“Fine. Just… stop being annoying.” Sherlock takes one piece of fruit and tosses it nonchalantly into his mouth. He chews on it slowly, locking eyes with John as he does.

John watches as Sherlock swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his pale throat, and Sherlock watches John watching him.

John tears his eyes away, turning a deep shade of red. “Erm,” he says, lifting the damp cloth off of the tray. “Take this and drape it over your forehead. It’ll help you relax, so that you can sleep a little bit better.”

Sherlock gives him a knowing look, half-amused. “You’re not going to do it for me, Doctor?” he says with a grin.

John wriggles where he sits, suddenly very, very nervous, knots twisting somewhere deep in his stomach. “Take it,” he says. “Don’t argue.”

Sherlock’s eyes are piercing into John again, and John thinks that Sherlock must be doing that now simply to drive him mad. He gives John one final smirk before taking the cloth, turning onto his back, and leaning into the pillow. He drapes the damp cloth over his forehead, shivering a bit, and lets out a sigh before closing his eyes.

“Sherlock,” John says softly, because he suddenly needs to know something before Sherlock falls asleep. “Can I ask you a question?”

Sherlock's eyes remain closed. “Of course.”

John swallows thickly, uncertain of whether it's a good idea to ask, but he's in deep now, and he's got to find out exactly how deep that actually is. ”Did you… with the drugs, were you trying to...overdose on purpose?”

Sherlock opens his eyes, and he turns to face John with a solemn expression. “No,” he says, “I was simply trying to dull the ache.”

And John understands completely.

The emptiness; a hole he needs to fill.

John can’t judge Sherlock. Not really. Everyone is just trying to dull the ache somehow.

John does it by fighting in wars.

“Actually—” Sherlock says carefully as he pushes himself upwards on the bed once more, removing the cloth from his face. He leans against the headboard, turns his head, and locks his crystalline eyes with John’s. “There's something I need to speak to you about as well.”

And John doesn't know exactly why, but he trusts this man implicitly, so he nods his head silently in agreement.

"John," Sherlock says softly. "The handgun in your drawer. Please unload it.“

John feels his throat tightening, shock overcoming him, causing him to feel slightly lightheaded. “What makes you think I've got a loaded handgun in my drawer?”

_And here it is._

Sherlock blinks at him, very slowly. “You’ve glanced in the direction of your drawer no less than five times in the past hour. Something’s there, something valuable, but you haven’t bothered to put it in a safe. So. Something that’s important to you, but not irreplaceable. Money? Not with a place like this. Electronics? Not judging by the mobile  phone you currently carry.”

_This entire time,_

“Drugs? Again, a possibility, but unlikely. If that had been the case, you probably would have moved them to a place away from me while I was changing in your bathroom. If you were keeping the gun for protection, you’d have taken it out of the drawer by now, having a complete stranger in your home."

_John thought he’d been meant to save Sherlock._

"Exploring a dark alley at night? Inviting a stranger into your home? Impulsive behaviour. You’ve been living in this place for weeks now, but you haven’t bought any furniture—your plans aren’t long-term.”

_But as it turns out,_

“John. You’re suicidal, and you have a loaded handgun in your top drawer, and I’m asking you to unload it.”

_They’re meant to be saving one another._

John doesn’t notice the tears brimming in the corners of his eyes.

“Am I wrong?” Sherlock asks quietly. His expression isn’t smug at all. It’s concerned, caring, sympathetic, almost urgent.

John stares back at him. “No.”

“Thought so. John. Please..." Sherlock repeats. "Unload the handgun.”

John blinks back tears. He looks at the ground, and then back up at Sherlock, who is smiling at him sadly, encouragingly.

“Right,” John says, taking in a quick breath and nodding resolutely. He stands, turning around to face the desk. He gazes intently at it for a few seconds, and then marches forward, opening the top drawer.

The handgun sits there, staring him in the face. So quiet, so small, and yet so powerful.

But John Watson is more powerful.

He lifts the handgun from the drawer and turns it over, dumping the bullets onto the desk before wordlessly returning it to its place.

He then turns and walks steadily over to rejoin Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t move; doesn’t say anything as John approaches.

John sits down on the floor, leaning back against the side of the bed. Sherlock shifts himself so that he is lying down again, resting his head on the pillow. John leans back further, letting his eyes fall closed, a surge of relief washing through his body. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispers, and says nothing more before he falls asleep.

John waits until Sherlock’s breathing steadies. He opens his eyes and turns his head, resting it on the side of the bed to watch Sherlock.

When he’s sleeping, Sherlock looks so intensely innocent—John can barely describe it. The facade he puts on to make himself look cool and unaffected falls completely away.

John feels the overwhelming urge to touch him, so he lays a finger on his wrist to take his pulse again. Steady, strong.

John has known this man for hours, and yet it seems like it’s been _years._

And John loves him.

God.

He _loves_ him.

It feels as though that’s what he’s meant to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John lets his eyes fall shut as he exhales, relishing the sensation of Sherlock’s touch._
> 
> _“It’s the oddest thing,” Sherlock continues, “but I suddenly feel as though having you near me is the most important thing in the world.”_
> 
> _“Yeah,” John murmurs, “I feel the exact same way.”_

At some point during the night, while Sherlock sleeps peacefully, his hand slides into John’s, and John doesn’t let go.

As the hours tick by, John can’t sleep—he sits by the side of his bed, thoughts shuffling through his mind, but they are _good_ thoughts—happy and serene.

He also allows himself to turn his head every once in a while to appreciate Sherlock’s otherworldly beauty.

John can’t believe how quickly he’s fallen for this man.

And he can’t shake the feeling that they’d met before.

Perhaps, he thinks, they had—in another place or time.

John knows it’s absurd, but he prefers the absurd over the listlessness of everyday life.  

And perhaps there, wherever, whenever it had been—perhaps he and Sherlock had saved one another as well. Gone through life with one another, been through hell with one another, perhaps protected—even died for—one another.

It doesn’t matter now. Because now, they’ve found one another again.

He suspects they would, and will, always.

Exhaustion begins to overtake John, but he isn’t ready to sleep yet, so he decides it would be a good idea to make tea.

He stands up, unlacing his fingers from Sherlock’s long, pale ones, and he wanders over to his kitchenette. There, he turns on the kettle, takes a mug from the cupboard, and can’t remember the last time he’s felt so complete.

Just as the kettle boils, a pair of hands settle onto John’s shoulders, and it calms him, filling him with an indescribable glow.

“John,” Sherlock softly utters, a gust of air against John’s skin.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is scarcely above a whisper, barely louder than the sound of his own heartbeat. "What are you doing out of—"

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” Sherlock interrupts gently as his hands brush down the sides of John's arms.

John lets his eyes fall shut as he exhales, relishing the sensation of Sherlock’s touch.  

“It’s the oddest thing,” Sherlock continues, “but I suddenly feel as though having you near me is the most important thing in the world.”

“Yeah,” John murmurs, “I feel the exact same way.”

“John, do you suppose you’d like to—what I mean to say is, would you care to join me in your—”

“Yeah. Yes, of course I’ll—”

“Good.”

Sherlock pauses for a moment, silent, as if he’s trying to figure out what will happen next.

John moves both of his hands to Sherlock’s. He pulls them downwards, wrapping Sherlock’s arms around his own waist, cradling his arms tightly against his abdomen. Sherlock hums happily, bowing his head into the crook of John’s neck, and John hums happily in return.

John suddenly remembers what Sherlock had said earlier. About leaving, going somewhere else to find more—

“Sherlock.” John’s voice cracks with worry. “You have to promise me you won’t—”

“I won’t,” Sherlock says into John’s shoulder. “John. I know it may be difficult to trust the word of a drug addict, but I assure you, I'm not going anywhere.”

John feels a heavy weight being lifted from his chest. “I believe you,” he says simply.  

He does. 

Sherlock unwinds his fingers, still joined together with John’s, and slides both of his open palms up to John’s chest. He begins to sway his body slightly forward and backward, as though a silent melody is playing in his head.

John sways with him. They stand there, arms full of one another, breathing together, smiling together, just being.

Together.

It’s exactly what the two are meant to do.

“Well,” John says moments later, reluctantly loosening his grip and turning around. “Should we head over to the—?”

They lock eyes, and Sherlock’s crystalline ones are wide, glazed and black, and John finds himself utterly speechless.

It feels as though it’s the first time they are looking at one another, but also as though they’ve been doing it for years and years and years.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is low, rough, and faintly trembling, making John regret the fact that he’s no longer holding him.

“Yeah, Sherlock?” John responds softly, taking the taller man’s hands back into his.

Sherlock turns his own hands beneath John’s smaller ones so that his palms face upwards, and he weaves all ten of their fingers together.

“John,” he repeats, glancing down. “When I said earlier... that you were ridiculous for feeling as though you were somehow _meant_ to help me... Well. I suppose _I’m_ ridiculous, too.”

“Yes, I’m quite sure you are,” John says, squeezing Sherlock’s hands affectionately. “Let’s be ridiculous together, then, yeah?”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth tug upwards, but his expression remains apprehensive. “John, I’m—” he stammers, “I’m not used to wanting things that are actually _good_ for me. It’s always been about finding whatever dulls the ache.”

“Yeah,” John says, his own voice wavering now. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.”

“John, what I’m trying to tell you—is that, I think, perhaps...” Sherlock inhales, his lips quivering. “... I believe that  _you’re_ going to be what dulls the ache from now on.”

Sherlock’s words come forth faster and more urgent as he continues, though his voice remains clear and honest. “Frankly, it defies everything I’ve ever believed regarding human sentiment, but—”

His eyes grow glassy, and he blinks a few times, and John grips onto his hands tightly, offering strength.

“John,” Sherlock says, finally. “I’m going to ask if I can kiss you. Because right now, I want only this, and I want it more than I’ve ever wanted any drug.”

“Sherlock.” John lets go of Sherlock’s hands and slides his own up the man’s arms, tickling his skin, gliding over his shoulders. He lightly traces the pale skin of his collarbone with his fingers before moving upwards and carding them through Sherlock’s curls.

“It’s okay, Love,” John whispers. “I’m going to say yes.”

A bitten-off noise escapes the back of Sherlock’s throat as he surges forward, pressing his lips eagerly to John’s. John grips tightly onto Sherlock’s hair as he draws him in closer, and the kiss is equally fierce, desperate, urgent on both ends. The two men soon become entangled, clinging, tugging, all arms and tongues and teeth, as they wander over and fall clumsily onto John’s mattress. They are pressed together, grasping, clutching onto one another so tightly that the oxygen between them is gone, fingernails burying into one another’s skin and the sheets of John’s tiny bed.

Trembling hands and earnest lips glide over warm, glistening skin, as the room becomes filled with the sounds of heavy breathing and blood pulsing through eardrums. Before long, John’s name is a moan on Sherlock’s lips, Sherlock’s a sigh on his, as they bask in one another’s taste. The flavour is passion, it’s ecstasy, it's rapture, it’s pure relief, it’s everything around them coming together and shattering all at once. 

They are melded, and neither of them quite understands where one ends and the other begins, but it doesn’t matter, because they’ve never felt so secure.

And when they embrace as they drift into sleep, Sherlock’s head is against John’s chest, and they fit, and that’s all they need to know for now.

***

John dreams about Sherlock that night, and the dream is more visceral than any dream he’s had in recent memory.

They are in a laboratory somewhere. Oddly, Mike Stamford is there, which John supposes makes sense, considering the two of them had met up earlier that evening.

“Mike.” Sherlock is seated in front of a microscope and wearing a tailored suit, and apparently, he knows Stamford as well. “Can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asks sensibly.

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock casually responds, flashing a quick grin.

“Sorry,” Mike says apologetically, “it’s in my coat.”

John reaches into his pocket. He removes his mobile phone and holds it out, offering it to Sherlock.

“Here,” John says. “Use mine.”

Sherlock looks back up at John with his crystalline eyes, as though he already knows every chapter of John’s story.

And then John wakes up.

His mind is flooded with the memories of the past few hours.

Kisses, warmth, heat, ecstasy, love, _Sherlock._

A sharp panic fills John as his eyelids fly open, but as the world comes into focus, the panic subsides.

Sherlock is pressed up next to John in his tiny, tiny bed, gazing back at him with the reverence of a man kneeling at an altar.

“You’re here,” John mumbles, his throat dry and chalky from slumber.

“Of course I’m here,” Sherlock replies. “I gave you my word.”

Sherlock looks a complete mess. Which is to say: he looks utterly beautiful. His hair is tousled from sleep, his face is spotted with patches of unshaven hair, his cheeks and neck flushed with pink. His shoulders are smooth and alabaster and slightly dampened with a light sheen of sweat, and he’s _perfect_.

That’s exactly what he is.

John lifts his hand to cradle Sherlock's chin, gently tilting it up towards him. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock hums. “I feel… surprisingly good. Better than I have for some time."

“Yeah," John says. "So do I."

Sherlock leans over, moving his face closer to John’s, until they are so close that they can feel their breaths tickling one another’s lips.

“You’re beautiful,” John whispers against Sherlock's mouth, without a second thought. “But you’re even more beautiful first thing in the morning.”

They close the space between their mouths with another deep, breathless kiss.

A happy sigh escapes Sherlock as he slowly pulls away. “I’m seeing clearly for the first time in a while,” he says, “and what I'm seeing now is exquisitely beautiful, too.”

John knows that neither of them is talking solely about what they see in front of them.

“John,” Sherlock says, curiosity settling upon his face. “Did you by any chance study medicine at Bart’s?”

“Oh, God,” John laughs, faintly uneasy. “I did, but I haven’t been there in _years_. Don’t tell me you figured that out from the colour of my walls, or from a stain you saw on my bathrobe.”

“No,” Sherlock replies hesitantly. “I just had... the strangest dream, and...” His voice trails off as he waves his hand dismissively.

John doesn’t respond; instead, he strokes his thumb over Sherlock’s dusky lips, and Sherlock turns his head to kiss John’s fingertips.

“I’ve got an old friend," Sherlock says with a sudden exhilaration. "... Who has a flat in Central London. Between the two of us, I think we could afford it.”

John blinks. “You’re… asking me to move in with you?” He chuckles as a realisation sets in. “I mean... we don't… _actually_ know a thing about one another.”

Sherlock purses his lips together, eyes shifting as he sorts through his thoughts. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” He closes his eyes, kissing John’s fingertips once more. “Would that bother you?”

“No,” John says. “That wouldn't bother me at all.”

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, rubbing his prickly cheeks against the soft skin of John’s inner arm. “And I know that _you,_ John Watson, are a military veteran recently returned from Afghanistan. And I know that your eyes are the colour of the deepest parts of the ocean.” He pauses just long enough to dust John’s wrist with a few more delicate kisses. “And I know that when you kiss, you kiss gently, as though you’re afraid to break me; but you're equally commanding and passionate as you are tender.”

John leans in to kiss Sherlock’s mouth—this time, it’s chaste, and slow. He can feel Sherlock's lips smiling against his, his own smile so wide his cheeks begin to hurt.

“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” Sherlock mumbles against John’s lips as they break the kiss.

John’s throat is so dry, he can barely speak. “I—Are you… I mean, how will we afford it? The military pension is slim. And... don’t take this the wrong way, Sherlock, but, erm—do you...  _work?_ "

"Intermittently," Sherlock says, lowering his head. "Freelance, mostly. But I wouldn’t worry too much about it. The landlady owes me a favour.”

John kisses the crown of Sherlock’s head. “Yeah? What is it that you actually _do,_ anyway?" he asks, because these are the proper questions to pose to someone with whom you’re already madly in love.

Sherlock’s face falls against John’s neck, and he lingers there for a moment before answering. “If it’s alright with you, John, I’d prefer to _show_ you rather than _tell_ you. It’s...rather complicated.” He moves further inwards, whispering over the shell of John’s ear. “But I can _promise_ that you won’t be bored.”

John considers this, but he doesn’t consider it for long, because truth be told—that’s all he really needs to hear.

And the ache in John’s chest has now been replaced by heat, electricity, elation, and by this strange, beautiful man. 

John knows. 

He pulls away to look Sherlock in the eye. “So that’s it,” he says, arching an eyebrow at him. “We’ve only just met, and we’re going to go look at a flat.”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiles. His eyes are wide, carrying no apprehension. "I think it could work.”

John smiles back. “Yeah. I think it could, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s reflections at the beginning of this chapter were inspired by a famous quote from Kiersten White’s _The Chaos Of Stars:_
> 
> “And I’d choose you;  
> in a hundred lifetimes,  
> in a hundred worlds,  
> in any version of reality,  
> I’d find you and I’d choose you.”
> 
> With a bit of a coda by the great [ContactSH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/contactSH/):  
> “I would and will always.”


End file.
